


In The Face Of All These Odds

by musicforswimming



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-14
Updated: 2009-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforswimming/pseuds/musicforswimming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't offer her anything useful when it comes to advice, but he can offer her this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Face Of All These Odds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for inlovewithnight's One Night Stand Ficathon; the request was Giles/Any Scooby, with the prompt "faulty moral compass". Set during S5's "Checkpoint", because Buffy and Giles's nighttime conversation ("I can't lose you") never fails to make me go "wow, so they totally did it in the back room after that".

His advice was mostly useless, and they both had to know it, for all that she humored him by asking for guidance: Giles could feel himself letting her down already, mere minutes after she'd said how valuable he was.

"Mom's going to need me," Buffy said, at last getting up from the table. "I can't stay too late, training." The last she seemed to add as an afterthought, as though there might be anything else they'd be doing -- of course, they'd just spent an hour in the sort of heart-to-heart he gathered she hadn't had with Willow for some time. She was stiller these days, at least when he could see her; Willow and Xander still coltish teenaged energy.

He followed her -- "Yes, of course." Into the back room, and he reminded himself again that he let only himself down, that if his mere presence was what she needed now, then for all that it chafes him not to be imparting wisdom, that's what he must be.

The store barely registers in his vision. He's still turning things over in his mind, and jars, books, and crystals pass by without his notice. She is the only important detail now, she and the Council, but as they're coming on her account, at the end, it's Buffy who matters.  
   
   
   
   
He barely said anything -- there was nothing to say these days, not in routine physical exercise. He had no criticism to offer, no suggestions as to how she might improve, not anymore: she had grown beyond his fluency in the language of the body. She tired of his silence eventually, though, which he couldn't exactly blame her for. "Come on, Giles, you're my Watcher. Watch me already, will you?" She was breathing heavily, but her sweat was practically nonexistent: a hint of dampness along her hairline.

She wasn't laughing as she said it, but he laughed, in an admittedly feeble attempt to dispel some of the...what, the darkness of the room? No, that was impossible, it was well-lit enough. But there was a heaviness around them, for all (not much) that he'd done to shake it. "No, of course, I'm sorry. I just find I've got very little wisdom to impart these days." Honesty, for once, seemed like the best policy.

"Giles, for God's sake," Buffy said, and then she closed the distance between them -- not much to begin with, only a few of the floor's stones -- and kissed him. Her hands were on his shoulders, moving up, pulling him in -- he had little by way of defense, of course, not against her, not anymore, and certainly not now.

Nevertheless, he at least had some sense of propriety, or, more rightly, some sense that she couldn't want this, not really. It wasn't self-loathing or martyrdom; he could hardly be her first thought for relief, but Riley was gone, Xander was with someone, the Sunnydale singles scene was deadly, and with a thus-far-unmatchable foe, she must be in need of some physical relief that could no longer be had from dusting a few vampires. "Buffy," he managed at last, when she pulled away, resting her head against his chest. It came out more lover-like than he cared to think, but she understood his meaning, and looked up.

"I know what I'm doing," she said. The weariness in her smile almost broke him then and there.

"Of course," he said. He realized that he was rubbing her back, slow circles over the white cotton top she wore for training in. He stilled his hand, although something within him took full notice of the fact that he didn't pull it away. "I didn't mean to -- "

"Well, I _do_ mean to," she said, stood on her toes, and kissed him again. He found himself bending to meet her, and couldn't blame it on her strength because her hands weren't touching him at all. He noticed her mouth, for all that he told himself he didn't want to; she kissed simply and hard, her mouth open against his. "This isn't about Riley," she said when, again, she was the one to break it off. "If that's what you're worried about. I mean, obviously if he was _here_, it wouldn't be you, but that's not why I'm -- look, Giles, if you don't want to..."

Even she would lose her nerve eventually, in matters like this -- no one could blame her for that, after everything -- she was turning away, breaking his hold on her (nothing she couldn't have broken with any trouble anyway, he reminded himself without any real bitterness), going over to gather her things.

As she had said, he reminded himself -- because that was what mattered, whether the Council agreed or not was nothing compared to what she required of him -- he was her Watcher.

He gave up arguing, far too quickly, of course, but he'd never pretended to be a match for her strength in anything. It was she who guided him to the couch, and when he tried to at least protest that, to offer, however clumsily, his own home, his own bed, she laughed. "It's okay," she said. "I like it here. It's safe. And it's mine, too, you know?"

"I think I do," he said, and let her push him onto the couch and climb on top of him before she kissed him again.

'Let' -- as if this were anything he weren't complicit in. As if he couldn't feel himself getting hard. That she was in control, he reminded himself as she stripped off her shirt and took hold of his belt, hardly meant that he had no control; that she needed this relief more than he did wasn't to say that he didn't need it at all. He held her waist between his hands, lifted one to run it through her hair, and when she finally maneuvered him into her, he lifted his hips to meet her.  
   
   
   
   
The moon was high in the sky, but it was waxing, which didn't mean it was particularly late. Buffy wasn't asleep -- how he knew this, he couldn't have said, because she lay still and breathed steadily, not speaking a word. He had an arm around her waist, but it couldn't be called holding her: if she wanted to leave, she wouldn't find it a difficult matter.

"I can take her, right?" Buffy asked. "Glory."

He said nothing for a few moments, trying to gauge what she needed to hear.

"Giles," she said at last, impatient that whatever she needed, it wasn't coming soon enough. "I know you're awake."

"Yes," he said, and kissed the nape of her neck, compelled by something he didn't care to examine too closely: this wasn't, it seemed, a night for introspection. "I'm sorry. Of course you can, Buffy; you'll find a way, as always."

It wasn't, strictly speaking, a lie. He had no reason to doubt any of it, the tight feeling of anxiety in his gut whenever he thought of Glory aside. Buffy had done the impossible before, and nothing was without its weaknesses, whatever appearances might have suggested about Glory thus far. That sense of dread, though -- it wasn't the truth, either.

"Liar," she said, but he could hear the smile on her face.


End file.
